


False God

by CatalenaMara



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, FrostIron - Freeform, God/Mortal Sex, Kink: worship, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Steampunk, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Worship, actual god loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where gods play favorites in the lives of mortals, Tony Stark has always been especially beloved by the gods – until the day he goes too far.  Steampunk-style AU.<br/>Many thanks to my betas:<br/><span></span><a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/"><b>Tenaya</b></a><br/>And <span></span><a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/"><b>Muriel_Perun</b></a>  <br/>for your invaluable advice and comments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



Tony Stark had been holed up in his lab for weeks and hadn’t slept in days. 

Barely had his latest triumph hit the press - with accolades still pouring in over his successful invention of the world’s first telephonic device, making it possible for people to speak to each other across short or considerable distances through the simple yet marvelous media of electricity, magnetism, and wire - then he had been seized with fresh inspiration. 

He had secluded himself for weeks in his basement laboratory, sending messages to staff as needed through pneumatic tubes, needing no company other than the mechanical constructs he had created to aid in his work.  He only slept when exhaustion dragged him down for a few hours at a time, his automatons continuing his work during those wasted hours.  

His mind seethed with ideas that came so rapidly he wished he could depict their images on some kind of device – yes! He could create that later, after he done this!  Instead he filled dozens of chalkboards with scribbled equations and ignored the increasingly frantic notes and phone calls (he loved his invention, he truly did, but he preferred to be the one making the calls, not being the recipient, and so disconnected the device) from Miss Potts, Mr. Fury, Mr. Barton, and other members of his staff, certain that they could handle whatever little emergency was occupying them without his intervention or even attention.

But, above all else, he was consumed with this fresh dynamic idea: 

He would create new life.

Others had thought of this idea before – Victor Frankenstein and his ilk came to mind – but what he had now conceived and was now working on was so much more than their grubby ghoulish work.  He had created a Man of Iron – his best automaton yet – created in the shape of a man.

He was now ceaselessly working to endow it with a mind of its own.  The innovative work Tesla had done with electricity had been the foundation, but mathematics was the key, and each new equation pointed to the next possibility.  While running all of this through his mind he also directed his automatons to perfect the mechanics of the device, the systems that would allow it to walk, to grasp, to bend and carry, in short, to recreate all the important physical movements of man.

He had not neglected his prayers.  He would need the aid of all the gods who had always favored his family to fulfill his plan.  It was true he had not been up to the upstairs temple with its magnificent statues in many weeks , but surely the small shrines he had set up in his basement warren were just as good?  It was intention that counted, surely, not display?  And certainly he had prayed to the family gods every time he thought of it – but had he thought of it often enough?

Because – and this pulled the tiniest thread of unease from the sparking chaos of his mind – when he had visited the basement shrines the gods had been very silent as of late.  There had been no signs of acknowledgement of his presence.  Moreover, his recent dreams had been filled with horrific images; of blood dripping down his inventions, of insects devouring everything in their path, of himself, bleeding from a thousand tiny wounds.

So when Miss Potts (who handled all practical matters of business for him), having forsaken her increasingly frantic attempts to contact him, had taken it into her own hands to enlist the aid of Miss Romanov (who excelled at code breaking), together working their way through the multiple coded locks to gain access into his basement laboratory and other chambers, he was irritated but also concerned enough by her stern expression to stop what he was doing and give her his full attention.

Most of his attention, anyway.  One small but interested part of his brain noted the way the fetching outfits Ms. Potts and Ms. Romanov were wearing flattered them exceedingly.  Their corset tops with their keyhole cutouts emphasized their bosoms, while their layered burgundy and black and goldenrod skirts hid any reference to the shapely legs he knew lay beneath. 

If he weren’t so utterly obsessed at the moment, he’d suggest a threesome.

But no.  The idea that had seized his brain had dug in with sharp claws and he didn’t have time for pleasures other than those of the mind.

“I have bad news,” Miss Virginia Potts stated without preamble and immediately detailed a long list of catastrophes:  his favorite airship had crashed, causing serious damage to some farm buildings in an outer borough (no loss of life, praise be to the Gods); Justin Hammer (that excrescence!) had filed a lawsuit claiming he was the inventor of the new telephone technology; Edison (that boil upon the scientific community!) had stolen one of his best ideas for a music playing device – the phonograph – churning them out almost fast enough to meet the rising demand (Stark would have to fire his head of security Mr. Fury for not preventing that theft in the first place), and yes, Ms. Potts told him, Stark’s lawyers were already on the case, waiting with papers that must be signed; and finally, Stark stock was down and continuing to fall rapidly.   

She paused for breath, and he roared, “Why didn’t you tell me this before—?” he paused at the quelling look on her face, “—now…”  His voice trailed off, and he suddenly felt as if she were his old governess, and he about five years old.  Well, he often liked feeling as if he were a child, but only when he was having fun.

“All right,” he said, scratching at his beard, disgusted to find it was untended.  Why hadn’t Dum-E reminded him he needed to trim his beard?  “All right,” he said again.  “Let’s go look things over.”

Nearly a day later, after reviewing the news of one disaster after another, and realizing if he kept going this way he would face financial ruin, after thinking through a dozen different plans to reverse course, after agreeing to Ms. Potts’ request that he make more public appearances, consult with his attorneys –  including the patent attorney – meet with the Mayor and some other blathering politicians, and – yes! – get some sleep, he decided to follow through in reverse order.  Exhaustion was blurring his mind; he had to get some rest.

But when he awoke he understood his first priority.

**_Had_** he been neglecting his prayers? He thought back over the last few weeks, a blur of manic work and snatched moments of sleep, broken only by an automaton he had programmed to bring him food every few hours and keep him supplied with coffee at all times.  Had he programmed an automaton to remind him of the necessity of regular worship?  When was the last time he had visited each of the small basement shrines to place offerings and say prayers?  His mind was blank as to when he had last properly attended to this crucial duty.

Coffee in hand, he went to the second floor of his mansion, which was entirely devoted to the shrines of the gods he worshipped.  He set the empty cup down in the table outside the entrance to the central chamber and did his best to focus his thoughts.

The central chamber was hexagonal in shape, with six doors, three of which led to private temples.  He entered the first chamber, hoping for that moment of welcome, that forever thrilling moment of greeting from Seshat to her devoted follower.

All was silent.  The air, despite excellent ventilation, felt lifeless and stale.  The statue of the goddess, magnificent in her leopard skin and headdress of a stylized flower and leaf, remained motionless, her Egyptian eyes staring blankly out into the room.  Her hand held a pen, symbolic of her powers over language and numbers.

He spoke the prescribed prayers clearly and carefully, placed his offering of flowers on her altar, waiting, waiting for that shudder of acknowledgement.  It was sometimes subtle, like a low whisper in the air, or the barest hint of her favored perfumes, the lily and cinnamon of Susinum or the rose scent of Rhondinium floating in the air.

Sometimes – very rare times – there had been greater manifestations.  A shifting of the expression on the statue’s face, the sound of a voice whispering inspiration into his ear.  And, the most sacred times of all, when she had reached out the hand holding a pen and written in hieroglyphics – of which he was an expert reader – on the papyrus he always kept here to give him clues to the solution of whatever problem he was facing at the time.

But now – nothing. The blank eyes stared past him, as if he did not exist.  He swore to her his worship, his allegiance.  Nothing but silence answered.

He withdrew respectfully, and then paced around the central chamber.  This quiet, this silence, what did it mean?  He would make more offerings.  He would –

He walked through the door into the second chamber, looking up at the massive, colorfully painted statue of Minerva.  His father had commissioned the most famous sculptor in the world to create this statue, and the artist had perfectly captured the details of the protective breastplate over her elaborate flowing robes, the complicated structure of her helmet, the painstaking depiction of her fingers gripping an upright spear, and the naturalistic feathers of the owl perched on her outstretched arm. 

How often had he offered prayers - for her wisdom, for inspiration, for the mathematics that drove his brain, for the work he did with steam and electricity, designing the clockwork war machines – his constructs of steel and bronze that best suited the war strategies of the government – for the skill to create them and so much else.  And she had showered blessings on him, the inventions that flowed from his mind, so many, so fast, like an endless waterfall, an endless bounty.

How often had he offered her prayers?  And – so rare, so prized – the times she had beckoned, and whispered in his ear, and he had gone on to create so many wonderful, valuable things.

But now, with his business in danger of utter ruination, he saw with horror that his last offerings were desiccated, some even reduced to ash, and the chamber itself smelled of dust and decay.

Her eyes were still upon him, but they held cold accusation. 

He went through the rite, but his voice stumbled, and did he now see contempt in her eyes?  He managed not to hurry the words, but when he finally left the chamber, appalled and beginning to be afraid at what the loss of her approval might mean, it felt like an escape.

Then, with sudden hope, he turned to the final door, entered the final temple.  The splendid nude statue of Mercury, painted in lifelike colors, wearing nothing but his traveler’s hat and winged shoes, held a money pouch signifying his role as the god of commerce, good fortune, and financial gain.

But Mercury was also a god of luck and trickery, and therein lay danger.  Had he failed Mercury somehow?  The favor of the gods could be fickle, but Stark had always been vigilant in his worship of all three.

Mercury’s cold marble eyes were utterly blank, and the room felt like something abandoned.  Manic thoughts skittered over denied despair.  He spoke the rites carefully and laid down the coins and currency emblazoned with Mercury’s image on the altar.

Somewhere, someone laughed mockingly.  Louder and louder the laughter came, echoing off the walls until it seemed there were a whole host of voices roaring with glee, and suddenly images flashed along the bare walls, images of blood, death, and destruction splashing crimson and black upon the white paint.

Heart pounding ferociously he backed out as quickly as he could, slamming the door in front of him.  Shaking, he found himself back in the central room, at an utter loss for the first time in his life. “What have I done wrong, that you’ve abandoned me? ” he asked the air and darkness, hating the despair in his voice, searching for his lost bravado.

There was no answer, and suddenly filled with determination he shouted defiantly, “If you’ve abandoned me I’ll forge my own way!”

He turned at a strange sound – and a sudden stinging wave of power slammed into him. 

Gasping for breath, he stayed absolutely still and watched in awe as a wash of green-gold light filled the chamber, then evaporated, revealing the tall figure of a man looming over him.  Tiny sparks of bright light flickered across his face and hands, then vanished beneath the surface of skin now revealed as white as salt.

Stark gaped, then composed his face, ducked his head in a brief bow, then couldn’t resist the temptation to look back up even though his brain was screaming at him not to be a fool (for once).  He didn’t know who this was or what he required – it was best to be humble (though that was hard at the best of times even when he knew what he was doing – or thought he did).

The god bent his head to look at him, speculative malachite-green eyes regarding him with interest out of a sharp-angled face.  When he didn’t immediately lower his gaze again, a lopsided smile twisted the god’s lips. 

Stark sucked in a breath, but after one more quick glimpse of leather and gold, and noticing the ink-black hair flowing past the god’s shoulders, he ducked his head again and stayed absolutely still.  

There was nothing about this figure that he had recognized, but the aura of supernal power was unmistakable.  All but the most sense-blind could feel it:  a palpable current of energy that flowed around all divine beings, forever marking them as gods, not mortals.

“What have you done wrong?” the god mused, echoing Stark’s words, his voice smooth, cultured, compelling.

Stark started, remembering his last words, and before he knew it he’d opened his mouth. “Yes, well, things are going pretty badly and I’ve been doing everything like I always do – the rituals, the offerings, the prayers, everything – but my business is going to shit, so I must have done something wrong - but I just can’t think what.”

A dangerous grin spread across the god’s face, and Stark snapped his teeth together, remembering too late how his mouth was always getting him into trouble, even when he absolutely should have known better.


	2. Chapter 2

“There are so _many_ possibilities.”  The god bent his head even further to study Stark’s face, coming uncomfortably near, and Stark had a close-up view of the smooth alabaster perfection of his skin, so very much like a marble statue, like nothing living at all.  Stark was torn between kneeling and backing away in terror, while something else inside felt almost irresistibly drawn to close the tiny gap between them, attracted like a moth to the flame of something vast and wonderful and strange.  Torn by conflicting impulses, he stayed frozen in place.

“Many possibilities,” the god repeated, amused.  “Perhaps you’ve committed blasphemy?” 

Stark’s heart lurched at the uptick in the danger level.  _No – I’ve never –_ Had he?  With the way he always talked without thinking, could he have done this forbidden thing?

The god took a slow stroll around Stark, then stopped back in front of him, staring into Stark’s eyes.  The god’s eyes gleamed with intense interest, and Stark felt like a specimen beneath a microscope.

“Or heresy?” the god questioned in a low, ironic tone.   Stark couldn’t repress his shudder, and wondered what he would have to say or do to repent – because he was suddenly, shockingly aware of exactly what he had done.

The god paused for a moment, intent on Stark’s reactions.  “Perhaps effrontery?”  He gave a brief laugh.  “That is one of my favorites, among mortal sins.” 

Stark knew he was going to die.  He was going to die, right now, and he still had so much left to do, but yes, he was guilty, he knew he was guilty, how had he thought he could do this thing?

The god’s grin widened.  “Or was it hubris?” he drawled.  The idea seemed to please him very much.  “I don’t bother to keep track of what that lot finds offensive.  Myself, I enjoy all of these things.”

An aura of crackling energy suddenly surrounded Stark’s body and he felt the static raise every hair on his skin.  The god moved ever closer, until Stark had to tilt his head back at a painful angle to maintain contact with those compelling, ironic eyes. 

The god reached out slowly and touched one fingertip to Stark’s cloth-covered arm.  Energy slammed like a punch through the thick fabric.  He flinched, swallowed, mind veering from terror to awe to intense curiosity as the god moved slowly around him, tracing a circle around his body with that one touch, now moving in delicate circles and lines, as if inscribing words on his skin.    

Without intending to, Stark closed his eyes.  The tracery of that touch penetrated fabric, penetrated skin, an easy effortless intrusion.  The part of his brain that always analyzed everything quieted and he allowed himself to just feel, having the sense that he had somehow slipped sideways out of time and back again, coming suddenly back to full awareness with the impression of questioning, of exploration, of a magnetic curiosity pulling Stark possessively close. 

Stark opened his eyes.  Horrified, he realized he was aroused. Really aroused, as hard and ready as he’d ever been.   _Not now!_ he commanded his dick.  It didn’t listen.

The god was grinning knowingly at him.   Hands by his sides, he made another circuit around Stark, then faced him again.  He lifted one hand and laid it upon Stark’s chest. 

Stark gasped as a sudden surge of warmth suffused his body.  Green-gold sparks flew wildly around them as a breeze blew through the windowless chamber, whipping the god’s long black hair back from his face, the dark strands slowly settling again as the air went still.

The god’s eyes lit with pleased recognition, and a delighted smile touched his mouth.

“What have you done wrong?” the god repeated with an airless laugh.  “You have dared to assume for yourself the powers of a god.”  He paused to savor the terrified comprehension in Stark’s eyes.  “You must have forgotten - the gods like to bestow their bounties – they are less than happy when mortals decide to take, instead.  Especially when…” Stark felt like a bug on a pin during what felt like an eternal pause “…the mortal aspires to take what is reserved for the gods themselves.  No wonder they have seen fit to abandon you.  You should consider yourself fortunate that they still show you enough favor that they have merely abandoned you to darkness.” He showed his teeth again. 

“I do.  I am.  Fortunate, yes,” Stark babbled.  “I can’t believe how fortunate I am.  How can I propitiate them?”

“Fortunate indeed.  Consider what would happen to you if you roused them to the fury you so richly deserve?  In their minds, that is. Haven’t you heard the stories of what happens to greedy mortals who imagine themselves as gods?”

“I have,” terror thickened his words, “heard those stories, yes.  What can I do?”  Stark instantly understood what he must do – and a heady wave of defiance filled him.  He was doomed, but he’d be damned if he destroyed his work.  “My creation.  I want to create life.  But not mortal life – I want the alchemy of metal and soul.”

A dark chuckle.  “You clearly have not paid much attention to the penalties insolent mortals incur.  May I remind you of those mortals who have stolen from the gods and the fates that befell them?”

These dark tales raced through his mind, of those with the hubris to steal bounties from the gods.  They suffered endless retribution in the shape of unachievable tasks or endless torture, with no hope of rescue or death.  How could he escape the consequences of what he had done?  What should he say?  There must be a loophole, a weaving path out of this!  Think, think!

“I see these things in my head – they’re there, right in front of me; all I have to do is the work to make them real.  The gods gave me so many gifts – wouldn’t it insult the gods if I ignored their generosity?  Why shouldn’t I use what they gave me?”

The god laughed and looked at him as if he had found something unexpected, something surprising.  He gave Stark an approving smile.  “Why indeed?  It is a question I ponder myself.  I think, perhaps… they are jealous.   There are many things,” his mouth formed a bitter twist, “that they prefer to keep to themselves.”

Stark decided to take advantage of the change in atmosphere.   “Who are you?” he asked boldly, and was rewarded with a look of approval.

“I am fire and quicksilver.” The god’s voice was like distant thunder, double toned with something almost beyond the range of human hearing, as if an echo was following close upon his words.  “I am the child of lightning and kindling.  I am elemental.  I walk the spaces in between realms.  I go where others do not.” 

Stark swallowed.  He knew this was dangerous.  The gods imparted this information – mortals did not ask.  But he did.  He was Tony Stark, and he was very well aware of what he was daring.  What did he have to lose?  “May I know your name?”

“I am Loki,” and Stark started, for that was a name from dark legends from the north of Europe, from the wild countries that still held magic in their bounds, along with legendary ferocious beasts such as dragons and dire wolves.  The people of the north had retreated to their fastnesses centuries ago, keeping their unknowable gods close to them.

Loki had been watching him closely, and seemed pleased with what he saw.  “I am the god who creates from destruction,” his voice shivered through the air.  “I am the fire of the mind that sweeps away the old to create the new.  And I am very, very particular about my followers.” 

The words reverberated inside Stark, settling around his heart like the warmth from a fireplace on a bitterly cold day, like a possessive yet gentle fist, certain in its hold.  “I don’t know your rituals,” Stark said respectfully, then added with a cocky smile, “But I’m a fast learner.”

There was definite approval in Loki’s eyes.  Two supernaturally strong arms suddenly embraced and lifted him, and Loki covered Stark’s mouth with his own.  Startled, Stark opened his mouth to a questing tongue – then shuddered in shock as warm breath seemingly made of pure energy entered his mouth and travelled like a shockwave through every cell.

He felt his body seize in ecstasy - then blackness overcame him.


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke, he saw that he was in his basement laboratory, lying on his back on the bed Miss Potts had placed there when, early on in their association, she had realized how often he couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs to sleep.  He sat up and looked around wildly. 

He was quite alone.  The quiet, the low light – all was normal.  He didn’t have the slightest sense of any other presence than himself.

Glancing at his chronometer, he saw it was some 15 hours later.  Stumbling into the water closet, washing his face, calling for coffee, which was promptly served by an automaton, he half-fell into the nearest chair – and found a large, oddly shaped piece of parchment awaiting him, covered with spiky unknowable letters.  He stared at them, mind blank for one microsecond – the gifts of the gods were often cryptic.  He shook himself.  He’d mastered hieroglyphics for the worship of Seshat.  He’d call for Miss Romanov.  She’d be able to determine what language this was written in, and he’d master it as well.

Then he touched the parchment – the abstract images shivered and transformed and English words and Arabic numerals swam into view.

How was that done?  How could he even think of questioning miracles?  But he did!  He wanted to know!

His attention was captured by the first line.  He began reading.  And read.  And read.  And read.  In a fevered delirium he read, and hours? days? later he turned his attention to his Man of Iron, his human-shaped automaton.  “So that’s how it’s done,” he said in awe and fascination and sudden greed. 

For a tiny fraction of a moment he considered the dangers of completing his Man of Iron.  If he succeeded and Loki couldn’t protect him from his family’s gods, the consequences of his daring were only too clear.

But the fire in his mind, the racing thoughts, the conceptual links that were forming and merging and plunging ahead, the sheer grand glory of what he wanted to achieve, could not be denied.

He went to work.

 

Days – weeks – months went by in a delirium of dancing equations – it was as if he could see them in the air itself – each leading to a new revelation, new inspiration.  He paused frequently to give thanks to Loki.   And sometimes, in the barrier between sleep and waking, he saw Loki’s ghostly figure slipping through his rooms, pausing to examine his notes and his automatons, or to study his older machinery, so much of it developed directly from Tesla’s work in electricity.  And, several times, he’d seen Loki’s face inside his own mirror.  The first time he’d dropped and broken it and had to send Ms. Potts an order to bring a replacement.  The second time he held it firmly and gave his thanks.  And received a long slow smile in return.

He thought of it.  Of course he thought of it.  Why was Loki giving him this gift?  And so he always asked, “How can I best serve you?  What do you want from me?”

And sometimes came the answer:  _Nothing that you will not be willing to give._

He had to be content with that, though his mind raced around a thousand possibilities of what this god might demand for a boon as great as this.

He took the time to meet Miss Potts’s gentle demands for him to pay attention to business every once in awhile.  The news was good.  Hammer had dropped his lawsuit, Edison had been hit with dozens of lawsuits from Stark’s lawyers, Mr. Coulson had taken Mr. Fury’s position and had assured him there would be no more security breaches, sales were up on all Stark products, a new and very lucrative government contract had arrived, and Stark stock was gaining ground again.

And every time he reached a dead end where even coffee could not sustain him, he slept – and awoke to new parchments.  Some small scraps contained only a single word or equation; others were so lengthy it took him days to read and absorb and understand their contents.  Each page appeared in that unfamiliar language; each time the page translated to English when he touched it.  He never failed to send a prayer of thanks to Loki for translating it for him, saving him the necessity of learning an entirely new language, granting him that time instead to build. 

There were never any clear answers, but clue upon clue, equation upon equation, each built on the previous one, each designed to trigger his thoughts in new and exciting directions.  He understood the structure of the mathematics he was learning, so much more advanced than anything Charles Babbage had created with his Difference Engine, so far beyond the algorithms Ada Lovelace had developed for the Analytical Engine.  Babbage and Lovelace had been his inspiration, he had studied and built upon their work to develop his Man of Iron, but these equations – this knowledge that he was dreaming into being from the clues left for him by Loki – this was new, breathtaking, barely comprehensible, and yet he was doing it. 

One day he woke, after many hours of sleep, his mind clear.  He rose, bathed, trimmed his beard, and ate a full breakfast.  He reconnected his telephone, and when a surprised Ms. Potts answered, told her calmly to expect him to return to the upper reaches of his mansion within a day or two.  He answered the most importance correspondence she had sent to him via the pneumatic tubes.  Then he sat down in front of his finished creation and waited.

He dozed, then woke again.  Between one instant and the next, Loki appeared, seated in a chair opposite him, a chair made of elaborately carved wood and green leather and gleaming with gold embellishments.  A chair he certainly did not own.

Loki looked to his right to where the completed automaton, shiny in gold and scarlet metal, stood against the nearest wall.

“Thank you for giving me the power to do this,” Stark said reverently.

Loki rose to inspect the automaton, the chair vanishing behind him.  “I did not give you the power - I just showed you where the path lay.  You followed it yourself.  You made this yourself.  And you are capable of creating so much more.  Create all you dream of, Stark.”

Stark had risen as well.  “But you did something to me – I felt it – power that surged through my body.”

“Ah.  Yes.  I didn’t want those others interfering with your work or bothering you in any way.”  Loki smirked.  “They’re such a tiresome lot.  I set my protection on you, to keep you safe from any reprisals on their part.”  He scoffed.  “Mercury sent you scary dreams, didn’t he?  Showed you scary pictures?” His voice dripped sarcasm.  “He fancies himself a trickster, but in that he is a rank amateur,” Loki stated condescendingly, and Stark held his breath, waiting for lightning to strike or a horde of locusts to fill his laboratory.

Nothing happened, and Loki gave him a smug smile.

“That lot – so boring and self-satisfied.  Mortals are mere playthings, amusements for them.  It’s fine for them to play with their pets and give their favored ones gifts, but just show them a mortal who breaks their arbitrary rules and shows initiative and all they think about doing is sending plagues and hurling lightning bolts and playing games with their livelihoods.”  His lips curled contemptuously.  “Cowards, the lot of them.  They know what mortals are capable of, and do their best to keep them in their place.  Because when one such as you comes along…”  Loki gave him a sly smile.  “You are so very much more than an amusement.  They thought the gifts they showered on you would keep you within their bounds.  But you are never satisfied, are you?” 

“No.  I’m never satisfied.”  He realized he was returning Loki’s sly smile.

“Neither am I,” Loki said.  “They may all be content to stagnate and do nothing but play their games.  That is not for me.  I get bored too quickly.  I like new things.”

“And that’s why you came to me,” Stark said in realization.   “I create new things.”  Stark was startled to  realize he didn’t feel the slightest trace of fear, nor did he feel in the least bit presumptuous speaking to Loki about these things.

“It is not often I find one such as you.”  Loki moved closer, less than an arm’s length away.  “One who could challenge the mightiest of the gods themselves and – if he or she had more than mortal flesh to place the challenge – to fight, to win.  Once in an age, I find one like you.  You are worthy.  I have chosen you.  Will you choose me?”

“I will,” Stark stated with conviction, then added, intensely curious, “I still don’t know how to properly worship you.”

“It’s very simple.”  Loki’s clothes vanished and Stark gazed at Loki’s body, beautiful in its pale, sculpted perfection.  His attention focused on Loki’s massive erection.

Loki gave him a lascivious smile.  “Kneel.” 

A god – asking for sex – he’d never been asked by the family gods for this – but they weren’t among the divine who craved sex with mortals – sex with gods was dangerous – Stark remembered tales detailing the fates of Jupiter’s mortal lovers – did Loki do this with all his worshippers?  – did he dare not to do this? Did he dare to do it? He loved challenge – loved risk – he **_wanted_** this – he was already hard –

His knees had hit the floor, mouth already open before those thoughts had finished charging through his mind.

He could practically see the aura of power surrounding that body.  He felt the energy touch, then envelope him, like swiftly moving water running past him.  Intoxicated at the implications of being completely enclosed inside the god’s power, feeling his body drink in the sparking energy, feeling more alive than he ever had, he gave thanks and bowed his head.

He heard Loki take in a long deep breath as his mouth closed on that hard length.  He ran his tongue along the sleek underside, not human in taste or texture, but so very close.  A smoky musk filled his nostrils and long fingers kneaded his hair, his scalp.  He listened intently for the tiny sounds of pleasure as he curled and swirled his tongue to every part he could reach, then sucked deeply. 

He wished he could look up, wished he could see the expression on those sharp features, but he kept his attention entirely on what he was doing.  He was good at this; he knew it; he’d often been praised for it, but was he good enough for a god? Daringly, he reached out his hands to caress a strong thigh, cup the clenching muscles of what had to be a gorgeous ass, then brushed his fingers against Loki’s balls.  Loki reacted with gasps and words of praise.  “My mortal – how clever you are, how talented – ” 

And then Stark found the right angle and took him in his throat.  Loki’s fingers tightened convulsively, holding his head in place, and he was speaking words in a language Stark could not understand.  Loki pulled back slightly, gasping out his name, flooding his mouth and throat with hot liquid tasting of woodsmoke.  He swallowed and he felt it burn down his throat and into his belly; bright starbursts of gold light erupted behind his closed eyes, and a thousand million particles of light-heat-pleasure lanced through his body.  When his mouth slackened and Loki pulled his cock out, Stark arched his head back and stared up uncomprehendingly into those intense green eyes.  The air shimmered around Loki and he saw an aura of green and gold sparks encompassing them both.

Loki held out his hands helped Stark to his feet.  “What’s happening to me?” Stark whispered hoarsely.  Strange flickers of energy shot painlessly through his head, his torso, his limbs, and his knees felt so weak that he would have fallen if it were not for Loki’s tight hold.

“The gods you know do not count me among their company,” Loki said, stepping back, his fingers trailing along Stark’s arms until his fingertips parted company with Stark’s hands.  With a twisted smile and a far off gaze, Loki continued, “So I am creating my own.  My new pantheon.  And you – you will be chief among them.  You feel it already.”

Trembling all over, Stark heard the words, heard them clearly, and understood.  All he could see now, though, was Loki’s indulgent smile.  “I have transformed you.  You are truly one of mine now.”

It was almost beyond comprehension, and yet he knew the gods had power to do this – to transform mortals into demigods.  Despite the fact he was no longer in physical contact with Loki, an electric thrum and buzzing sensation still filled every cell of his body; with every sense suddenly magnified beyond anything he could imagine.   In utter shock, his thoughts halted for a brief instant. 

Loki reached out, rested one hand over Stark’s heart, and the sensation receded to a manageable level.  “We’ll do this slowly.” 

Stark swayed, sucked in a deep breath, and the dizziness passed.   His cock, however, was as hard as it had ever been and demanding attention.

He gasped as Loki’s hand found, stroked, and grasped it.  He stared up into the god’s face in astonishment and gave a startled shout when Loki picked him up and arranged him in his arms as if he weighed nothing.  Loki carried him over to his bed and settled him carefully down.  Stark barely noticed the feel of his familiar bedding, his gaze riveted on Loki as the god positioned himself directly above Stark.  Feral, hungry eyes met Stark’s for an instant, then Stark hissed in pleasure as Loki bent his head and swiped his tongue against Stark’s neck.  Sharp teeth nipped at his neck and long fingered hands explored and caressed everything they could reach, pausing briefly to pinch hard at his nipples.  He squirmed and shouted, and dug his fingers into Loki’s shoulders, then started to pull his hands away, wondering just what he was allowed and not allowed to do.

Loki was already moving, and Stark curled his fingers helplessly as Loki began mapping and marking the contours of his neck and shoulder with his tongue and teeth.  Lower and lower Loki went, fast and rough, overwhelming Stark with a tidal wave of sensation, destroying all thought.  He tangled his fingers in that long raven hair, and pulled hard when that hot tongue licked the tip of his cock then that hot mouth engulfed his hard length.  Tongue – teeth – lips – throat – in a delirium of pleasure he heard his own voice shouting out encouragement, shouting Loki’s name.  Then Loki took his cock right down his throat and his mind whited out.  Bare moments later he was crying out his pleasure, finally relaxing bonelessly on his bed. 

When he opened his eyes, Loki was lying on one side next to him, his head propped on one hand, looking enormously satisfied with himself.

“Why,” Stark gasped when he was finally capable of speech again, “You’re a god!  Why would you do that? Are mortals worthy of – ”

“Mortals are worthy of much.  I wouldn’t like you so much if you weren’t.”  Loki stretched and ran one hand along Stark’s cheek.  “I stole fire from the other gods for all of you, gave all of you this gift and other gifts as well eons ago.”  Stark stared at him in astonishment.  “Oh, I know.  That’s not what your tales tell.  I do like to keep things complicated, as it helps me with my many plans.  I gave you these gifts so there would eventually be those among you willing and able to challenge those who thought themselves above all other beings.”  He reached out a long-fingered hand and began to lightly stroke Stark’s hair, petting him.  “I have claimed you as my own.  None of the ones you used to pray to ever bothered to do so, content in the nourishment of your worship, preening in your gratitude for the boons they gave you.  Yes, you were from one of fortune’s favored families, but you, as yourself – they gave you great gifts, but not the one I bestowed upon you.”

“Yes,” Stark said, awed, aware now of how different he was becoming, of changes happening deep within his body.

“None of them will ever harm you again.  None of them will ever touch you again.  Those days are over.”

Stark reached for the ritual words of gratitude and began to speak them.  Loki pressed one finger to his lips, preventing him from speaking, and got to his feet.

Stark followed, feeling different – more awake, stronger - than he ever had before.  A wave of energy shimmered over both, and they were clothed and clean again.  Stark looked at Loki, then himself, and grinned.  “You do have style.”

Loki smirked and his eyes shone with delight as he looked Stark over.  “Now that’s more like it.  I don’t like hearing words you’ve given to others.  Give me your own words.”

He turned and headed in the direction of the finished automaton, Stark right with him.  They stopped and turned to face each other.  “When you are not here,” Stark said urgently, “How do you wish me to worship you?”

“Say my name,” Loki proclaimed with a wild smile, “as a prayer.  That is all.  Now,” he glanced toward the Man of Iron.  “It is time.”  Loki’s voice was once again inhumanly strange, and the green of his eyes glowed like witchfire.  “I gave you fire.  Light your torch.”

So Stark did.  He reached for the device that would activate his Man of Iron.  It was so compact, so miniaturized!  Weeks ago, he would not have imagined such a thing possible, to have so much power in the palm of his hand. 

He lifted the device and paused.  Loki, standing beside him, was absolutely still.  Save for the sound of his own breathing and the ticking of various clockwork mechanisms, the room was as hushed as a temple.

Stark pressed the button.

The automaton’s eyes glowed in the armored face.  “Sir,” it said.  “How may I help you?”

“Come over here,” Stark said, and smiled proudly when the automaton came forward.   “There are many things you can help me with.  But first, I want you to know who you are.”

The automaton inclined its head in a brief nod.

“Your name is Jarvis.”

“My name is Jarvis,” the automaton repeated, and there it was in the tone of its voice – a spark of personality, notes of pleasure and pride.

“And my name is Tony Stark.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis said, clear recognition in his voice.  “I know, sir.  You created me.”

“A thing of wonder,” Loki looked at Stark with the pride of one whose protégé has succeeded beyond all expectations.

Elated, Stark smiled broadly, and turned back to his creation. 

But before he could speak, Jarvis asked, “What next, sir?”

Loki’s hand found Stark’s.  “What next, indeed?” Loki breathed, and Stark, with new ideas already racing through his head, echoed, “Indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> The mythology scattered across northern Europe surrounding Loki is like a fractured mirror with most of the pieces gone. The pieces never quite fit, and academics argue over what is valid, and what is not. And while they carry on their arguments I’ll take the bits and pieces I like and see where they lead me. :-)  
>   
> Many sources say Loki was a fire god in Germany. One intriguing ancient carving suggested that perhaps he is the only male god ever worshipped as a hearth deity. If so, this would give him control over fire as a tool for humankind. Some sources even compare Loki to Prometheus, and I thought, yes, giving humans fire would be such a Loki thing to do.  
>   
> I also found an interesting bit of academic meta describing Loki as wildfire, the child of lightning and kindling*. The academic conversation went on to portray him as an archetype of creative destruction, of change vs. stagnation, of the willingness to explore ideas no matter the consequences of that knowledge, of intellect and creativity that breaks established paradigms, sweeps away old orders and creates new ones in their place.  
>   
> Who, then, is better to be Tony Stark’s god?  
>   
> * If . . . Fárbauti as "dangerous striker" refers to "lightning", the figure would appear to be part of an early nature myth alluding to wildfire (Loki) being produced by lightning (Fárbauti) striking dry tinder such as leaves (Laufey) or pine needles (Nál).


End file.
